Asked For (32 page)

“Glen…” It was Ida. She was at the back of the restaurant, her fists on her hips.

“Not now,” he said. Mr. Morgan took Lana, like a child, like a woman being born, and lifted her from the room. She didn’t know where they were going, but the restaurant was behind them, along with Ida’s accusing glare. He was close. He drew her into himself, as he took her away. To a place her heart could bleed, and heal, and love.

Chapter 47

James 1959

Mama came through the door, the door to the small bedroom Kevin had let James use after Pop threw him out. James was packing; so was Magdalena. Kevin hadn’t panned out like she’d planned. “He’s too much like Pop,” Magdalena had said. It was all she’d said, and James left it at that. Even though Kevin had allowed James to stay, James had never felt welcome. Maybe that’s what Magdalena meant, why it didn’t work out. It didn’t seem to matter to her, so it didn’t matter to James either. He was packing for the brief winter baseball session. After that, he didn’t know what he’d do until the team began its spring practice session. James didn’t know where Magdalena was going, she hadn’t said, but she always found a place.

Mama looked thinner, worn, and tired. James stopped layering his clothing into his bag and stared at her, the paleness of her face, the red rim around her eyes as she stared at what he’d packed. “You could come with me,” he said. Mama had stayed with Pop, even when he threw them both out. James had begged her to come to Magdalena’s with him, but she had refused.
It can’t be any worse than it’s ever been.
She hadn’t said it, but James had seen the thought in her eyes. There had been plenty of disappointment, plenty of hurt. She didn’t think there could be so much more that she couldn’t take it.

Mama shook her head. She crossed her arms and looked at his bag.

“I’ll only be gone a week. You could be gone for a week. Please come.”

Mama looked up, and her gaze drifted to the window behind him. She stared out at nothing. She was just traveling the only way she ever would, by imagination.

There was a thud by the front door, and Magdalena appeared behind Mama. She brushed her hands together as if she’d just built something instead of taking it apart. “That’s done,” she said. “I’m packed and ready. Need any help?” She eyed James’ lone bag.

“I got it,” he answered. “I want Mama to go with me.”

Magdalena eyed their mother, then looked back at James. She shook her head. “She can’t.” Something about the way she said it told James she was right. He didn’t understand it, but he knew. He slapped his remaining clothing into the suitcase. He trusted his sister, but he was fed up with the way things were, tired of the fact that he never understood.

“I’m ready,” he said at last. He latched the suitcase and yanked it off the bed. “Tell Kevin thanks for letting me stay here.”

Magdalena snorted. She turned and walked to the front door. James and Mama followed as she carried her two bags out of the house to the front yard, where she set them down. “I’ve got a ride coming,” she said.

James looked at Mama. She didn’t return the glance. He knew she wouldn’t. Magdalena’s life was always a puzzle, one James knew Mama always hoped would finally piece together. They stood at the edge of the yard. Magdalena lit up a cigarette and waited, watching down the street to the left until it came, Max’s big lumbering car moving toward them.

“Max?” James didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“Just borrowing it,” Magdalena said. She blew smoke in the direction Max was coming from and watched the slow advance of his car.

Magdalena drove. She never dowsed her cigarette, but she hung it out the window as she dropped Max off at his house.

“Got some time, little brother,” she said as they pulled back into the street. “Your train doesn’t leave for over an hour.”

James looked at Mama. She’d chosen to ride in the back seat with him, even after Max got out at his home. Her skin was sallow, her gaze a pool of vacant sorrow.

“Take us to Mr. Morgan’s,” James said. Magdalena stopped drawing on her cigarette. She held the smoke in and stared straight ahead. “Mama needs one of his sundaes.” He looked at his mother. Her face flushed, her eyes grew wide. She looked down at her hands in her lap. “I should have taken you for one years ago, Mama. It’s just what you need.”

The car lurched forward. James saw the curl of a smile on Magdalena’s mouth as smoke seeped from between her lips out the window.

Chapter 48

James 1959

The bell Mr. Morgan had on the door of his café tinkled as Magdalena and Mama stepped through. James followed. He eyed the table in the back, the one he’d used most often when Mr. Morgan sat with him or served him, helped him find the right path. It was empty. He reached for Mama’s elbow. He wanted to take her there, let her share the same balm he’d found, but she’d moved. James watched as she walked to the restaurant’s side wall, to a booth, as if it had her name on it.

James followed. Mama reached the booth, touched her fingers on the table’s top, then slid in. Magdalena slid into the seat opposite her. James frowned, then bent to slide in next to Mama.

“Over here, little brother,” Magdalena said. She pushed up against the wall and patted the bench seat next to her. “Sit by me before you go.”

James frowned again, but he obliged her, sliding in next to his sister. He looked across the table at Mama. There was color in her cheeks, a flush that went with the deeper breaths she seemed to be taking.

“You all right?” he asked.

“So, you got your place to stay all set up?” Magdalena interrupted.

James looked from Mama to Magdalena. His sister’s eyes were bright. She was excited. He couldn’t imagine why she’d interrupted him.

“Yeah, all set.” He started to turn back to Mama, but Magdalena grabbed his hand. “You need any money?”

“What?” Sometimes Magdalena could be annoying. He frowned at her. “No, I don’t need any money. Besides, you don’t have any.”

“I always have money. I work, remember?”

She hadn’t talked about cleaning houses in forever, but she was right, she always had money, or a way. “No, thanks, I don’t need any.”

He pulled his hand from Magdalena and turned back to Mama. She was looking across the restaurant, and he followed her gaze. Mr. Morgan was walking toward their table, his eyes on Mama, the white towel flopping in his hands as he rubbed and wiped them. He stopped at the edge of their table. He stared at James’ mother. James looked at Mr. Morgan, then Mama. Something beat in Mama’s gaze. It was life. It was beauty. She’d gone from cadaverous to living. And even without one of Mr. Morgan’s sundaes.

“I…” James began. “I mean, we…”

“Sundaes?” Mr. Morgan asked.

Tears, a tiny rim of wetness, pooled in Mama’s lower lids.

“Work your magic,” James said. It was too quiet to hear, or so he thought. But Mr. Morgan smiled at him, turned, and disappeared.

There was nothing to say. The clink of glassware and silver came from behind the fountain where Mr. Morgan worked. Even Magdalena was quiet. The three of them sat there. James wondered if Mama was afraid Pop would find out she was in here, especially now.

Mr. Morgan appeared at the booth’s edge, two dishes of sundaes in his hands. He slid one in front of Mama and the other in front of Magdalena. He laid a spoon near each one. James eyed the two dishes, white and chocolate and bright colors glistening in the light. Mr. Morgan disappeared, then reappeared. He put two more dishes on the table, one in front of James and the other near Mama. Mr. Morgan slid in beside Mama and pulled that dish to himself. He gave James a spoon and kept the last.

Something beat in James’ chest. Something far away was trying to come to life. Something was familiar, something was right. It was as if he’d always seen this moment, hungered for it, but yet never knew for sure.

“Cheers.” Magdalena waved a dripping spoonful of ice cream in the air.

James watched them dig in. His mother. Mr. Morgan. Side by side. Hadn’t he seen this somewhere before? Wasn’t this buried in his mind? Maybe in a dream? How could it be? A gulp formed deep inside. It simmered. It was a cry. It was what was left of his scream. It hurt, but it was right. Mr. Morgan looked up. Their gazes caught. Their hurts meshed, their silence said the same thing. James saw Mama there in Mr. Morgan’s eyes. He saw himself. Just as he had years ago when Mr. Morgan said to choke up on the bat.

Someone screamed, but it was outside instead of in James’ heart. People were running. Some ran into the restaurant and all the way through to the back.

“Fire!”

James smelled it then, the unmistakable scent of burnt metal. Wood, heat, ashes, and smoke billowed out of the sky and rumbled down onto the street in front of Mr. Morgan’s restaurant.

More people ran in and cut through, words piecing together all James needed to know.

“Pop!”

James sprang to his feet. He ran to the back, Mr. Morgan beside him. The back of Pop’s business was still there, but the heat and smoke coming from it forced them back, down the alley, to one end or the other to get away or to get help. James threw up an arm and pushed around the building. It hurt, it burned, but he pressed on, around Pop’s building, to the front.

Flames licked up the sides of the shop, the front a furnace. Black smoke lunged for the sky. James scoured the crowd, smoke and heat burning his eyes. He threw his arm over his eyes and tried to move closer. Men he recognized were backing away, men who’d worked for Pop for years.

“Where’s Pop?”

James turned. Harold, clad in an apron from his store, stood at James’ side. They looked at each other, the heat beating them back.

“Ran back in,” a man coughed.

James felt Harold’s hand wrap around his arm. “In there?” James yelled. Harold’s hand tightened. James threw it off, stripped out of his light jacket, soaked it in a pail of water, then threw it over his face and plunged forward. Pop would only go back if there was something he really wanted. Maybe in his office. He had to be in the back corner.

A hand touched his back as he reached the building. The heat blazed; the smoke blinded him. He shrugged away from the hand and shoved it off with one arm. “Get back, Harold!” James shouted. “You have Sandra to think of.”

The hand came again. It held on.

“Get back!” James screamed. He kicked at the small door to the side, one that would get him to Pop’s office the quickest, farther from the main shop floor where the bulk of the fire seemed to be. The door crumbled, sparks exploded, and James stumbled backward into the person behind him. “Harold, get away!”

“Your brother’s back there.”

James turned. He squinted against the smoke. Mr. Morgan looked at him, his face dark, sweat making rivers of black down his tan face. James turned back to the open doorway and pushed through, Mr. Morgan behind him.

It was impossible to breathe, impossible to see. James heard Mr. Morgan cough. He wheeled around to tell the man to get out when he saw it, a long, lanky body stretched nearby, both arms clutching something to the chest. Pop.

James hurried forward, fumbling, closing his eyes against the heat and smoke. He felt his father’s back and latched on. He tugged and pulled, dragging him inches at a time toward the door. James yanked hard and stumbled, lost his hold and fell. Scrambling on all fours, he grappled in a circle like a blind man. “Pop!” He tried to call, but he choked, his chest constricted into a deep cough. He squinted to the right, where the light of outdoors should be. There was nothing but black smoke. He tried to stand, holding back a cough, panic setting in. Where was Pop? Where was the door? Where was Mr. Morgan?

Crouching, James broadened his circle. He stumbled forward and fell again, wind exploding from his lungs. He gasped for air, drew in a deep breath of smoke, and choked, lights bursting in his head. Whatever was beneath him kept him off balance…he fought against it…a body...it had to be Pop. He grasped at the figure. His hand hit something sharp and hard. He shoved at it and tried to stand, pawing over the body, searching for an arm. He tumbled to the side and rolled to the floor and lay there. Something clutched him from behind. He felt himself heaved upward. The body beneath him moved also. He tried to get a foothold, use his legs to help, but his coughing erupted; it was fierce. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see.

The smoke began to thin. The air lightened. Whatever had him by the back let go and dropped beside him. James landed on a body. He coughed, he gagged, and then everything went black.

Chapter 49

Lana 1941

Lana stared at the baby boy in her arms, his black hair, his almost olive skin. Babies change. Sometimes they started with dark hair, then it lightened. Had blue eyes at first, then later brown. “What will you be?” she whispered. He slept. He was peaceful. He was to have been her miracle child, love’s child, the one that made Cletus happy again. Another son, the only thing he wanted for children.

“He came early,”
she’d told Cletus. “He’s small because he wasn’t ready to be born.” Cletus had stared at the baby, then at her. “He resembles Carla, don’t you think?” The boy did resemble Carla, but Lana saw in Cletus’ eyes there was no similarity.

“That boy,” he’d said, “isn’t mine.”

“He is, and you know he is.” Lana had said it firmly to his back as Cletus left the room. He didn’t believe her.

She’d been gone too long, several months ago. She’d left town and stayed with Grandma. Ella had taken over for her for a few days. Jim had brought her back, stayed to eat with them, then left. Cletus’ silence had been deafening. He really didn’t care, yet he did. Some strange part of him claimed her yet didn’t want her. She’d tried to explain how sick she’d been at Grandma’s, how she couldn’t suffer a long ride on the train, how Claire was heavy with child and couldn’t ride with them but didn’t mind if Jim brought Lana home. Jim was kind, a childhood friend, but nothing more.

Lana had vomited then, spilled out the undigested supper she’d eaten, all over their bedroom floor. She stared at her meal at her feet. Cletus had come near, stood over her in nothing but his long johns. She’d touched him, forced herself to reach for him, her fingers tracing the weave of fabric around his waist. She thought she’d vomit again. The room seemed dark, the floor swirled and spun, but she held on, following a trail around his back, her fingers leading her arms around him.